Another on-going series of New York stories
Their father grew up next door to our father on Henry Street. Tenements. Not the hip, over-priced, badly renovated, tons of cache tenements of today but the rat-filled, roach-saturated, filthy, over-crowded tenements of then.
Their great-grandfather and grandfather had the stables. They were the blacksmiths. Our grandfather was pro-union but there's speculation it was just an excuse to be self-righteous and punch someone not related.
After the co-ops were built and the tenements disappeared, our parents all got new fancy apartments down the street from one another. Elevators, no rats, less roaches. Trees were planted too.
(Dana's husband, George was one of the couple of men who got those co-ops built.)
The older girl (who went to yeshiva with B.) knew the plaid "lumberjack" jacket from LL Bean and the ked sneakers Florence always wore.
Every once in a while, Dolly their mother would say "Let's go visit Florence" and they would come over. Sitting at the kitchen table, the trains going back and forth.
The girls still live in the old neighborhood that was built on top of the old neighborhood.
When I showed up for ice tea and picture looking, one of them said, "Betcha walked here." Of course I did. Inheritance.
I will probably get details wrong and forget about dates and lose track of which family did what, but I don't get wrong the neighborhood.
Commuting Adventures, Chapter 663 - In Manhattan, rich people ride buses and subways, right alongside you and me. In Bloomberg’s world, this means that mass transit has to work – because thos...
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